JxH: To Feel As He Does
by Titaniafairy
Summary: Harley leanrs what it's like for the Joker every time and goes a little over the top. Hey, its the job of a psycho clown! VERY STRONG VIOLENCE! not for the queasy or weak-stomached. Enjoy!


_I only wish I was creative enough to own any of these characters. A big thanks to DC for doing it for me._

Harley wasn't sure which made her shiver worse; Puddin's touch that was too gentle and too soothing or the face of the little stucco home that housed the worst years of her life within its seemingly innocent walls. The empty windows became eyes in her mind that offered a dangerous challenge while the door transformed into a lecherous leer. It downright terrified her to the bone, bile rose in her throat and the urge to bolt like a rabbit overwhelmed her. Only the hand of her love kept her in place; or the fact that in her terror her legs had gone numb and wouldn't move, despite her inward pleading.

The Joker stroked her shoulder lovingly and reassuringly, gesture she had never felt from him. Too foreign and strange and so unlike what she had grown to know and love from her beloved. Normally it would be a welcome change to experience him in a not-so volatile mood but now it added to the entire shrillness of the moment.

"It's OK Pooh, you've done this before and think of all the things he's done to you. It'll be better than ever, you'll know how it feels like for me. The power, the ecstasy…" he breathed the last word into her ear and stroked her cheek simultaneously. As always he knew just what to say, just what to do to put her where she needed to be. That's why she loved him, he was perfect. He just _knew. _Of course she would do whatever it took to relate to him on a new level. Still indulging in his touch, however alien it felt it was still _his_ afterall, she gathered her senses. It wouldn't be so hard, really. She'd really come to enjoy killing. It was a true intimacy she had to share with her Mistah' J, other than the obvious one. It's just that this time it was personal, she'd never known or cared about the other victims. It was in so many ways like stepping on ants that were on the kitchen floor; gross, annoying and in the way.

Her father was the biggest, grossest and most annoying ant yet.

Now she understood that because it was personal it would be all the more fun. The leering face transfigured back into the lifeless dated home it was, identical to every other on the street. With all the ability of a cheetah she sprung for the front door; quick, agile, graceful and lethal. The Joker's soft laughter followed in her wake. One powerful kick and the cheap door flew from its hinges and landed on the shaggy rug with a dull 'thud'. Enough to cause her father to probably roll over in bed but not to rouse him from his drunken stupor and certainly not enough to wake the neighbors. Decorations from the seventies loomed at her, unchanged from the day she had headed off to college and never come back. The mere sight trigged the feelings of despair, anger, and loathing that had so often been constant companions to her for her childhood and teenage years. Once again she drew on the loathing that had been her power and drive to succeed, her hate of her father that pushed her to be everything that he wasn't; successful, powerful and compassionate.

The Joker came up behind her and wordlessly pressed a knife into one hand a gun into the other. Careful to keep his distance he followed her down the paisley colored hallway, she paused for a moment outside what he presumed to be the bedroom of her hated father. Quietly she twisted open the door and crept to the foot of her father's bed. The smell of stale beer eminated off him and he lay sprawled in the clothes he had worn that day. For a moment she looked poised to attack, knife held high and balanced, her weight in the balls of her feet. Suddenly she relaxed and stalked to the adjoining bathroom with a confused Joker behind her only a moment later.

"What are you doing?" he hissed, the menace that dripped from his tone turned the question into an obvious threat. By this time she was wiping off her wet face with a towel and revealing her natural face completely stripped of greasepaint or make-up. Her blonde hair was plastered down on her head and barely constrained by haphazard pigtails, her hat lay discarded on the moldering, ancient tile. But he only noticed her eyes.

A danger blazed there that could only be rivaled only by himself. Instantly he was aroused.

"I don't want him to think he fell the unlucky prey to Gotham's most notorious rogues. I don't want him to think the world will pity his unfortunate death as they read about it on the front page f the newspaper. I want him to know it was his own little girl. The same girl who he never wanted or loved, who he hit, whose money was stolen for booze, who he laughed and ridiculed and whose mother he beat so hard she bled to death at the bottom of the stairs, a convenient place to look like an accident. And when I moved to help her, he beat me too," she laughed softly, maniacally, her eyes filled with cold fire, "No, I want him to know exactly what he's in for."

The Joker couldn't help but admit to himself that she had to be on of his finest experiments. With fascination he watched her tear the spare bed linens into strips that she used to bind the slob's ankles and wrists. It was not until she was fastening the last ankle did he finally awake. Slowly he became aware. "Whada Hell's goin' on?"

Harley giggled, all the while still playing with strips of bed linen. "It's your little girl Harleen," she simpered, "Don't tell me you've forgotten. Ya' know? Spittin' image of her mom… before you bashed her face in." She paused for dramatic effect, letting her father's confused babbling fill in the emptiness. The Joker leaned back in the shadows, for once he wanted to watch and not be the center of attention. "I tried to call you, back in my freshman year, letcha know how I was doin', thought you'd wanna know… but ya' hung up. Well now it's my turn!" she chirped and revealed what she had been fiddling with in her hands, a noose constructed from bed sheets.

"What the fuck…?" He struggled against the makeshift bonds but they held fast, his eyes showed his confusion and surprise with just a hint of fear. He should have been terrified. In what seemed like one fluid motion she had the noose around his neck and leapt on top the nearby boudoir.

She tightened and strangled, the sound of his suffocation filling her with a sense of delight that was completely new and overwhelmingly wonderful. Dry, heaving gasps of air that were no less arousing than any sound made by her Puddin'. Just when the filth was near to passing out she yanked the noose off, pleased to see the welt marks already beginning to form on the tender flesh. Laughter she could no longer contain ricocheted off the walls like bullets from a machine gun. Oh how badly the Joker wanted to join in, but he let Harley have her fun. She needed to learn.

Quinzel's eyes bulging with fear watched Harley as she pulled the knife out and held it directly in front of his face for him to get a good look. " Look Daddy! Big girl toys!" she giggled and with a quick stroke slashed his shirt to reveal his chest.

"Eeew hairy!" she wrinkled her nose in disgust. Really, watching his fear was too much! Now she understood why Puddin' went to so much trouble to make his schemes perfect. It was fun! Good, clean, wholesome fun with no sex and drugs involved. It was a natural high. She took the blade and exerted just enough pressure to make a small wound, no deeper than a paper cut but it sent him wailing.

"No, no! Not my girl-!" The sting of her slap silenced him completely. "I am not your girl," Harley growled.

Pressing deep she took the knife and carved straight through the length of his torso. The pain shocked him too much to scream. With a little digging she was able to extract his small intestines and like a 15th century executioner held them high over his head for him to see. That sent him screaming loud enough to restart her laughter. Loud enough to wake up the neighbors. With that in mind she crammed the intestine into his mouth to choke off the screams.

She played with him like that until long after he died either blood loss or choking on bile, she didn't care. No other earthly experience had brought her this kind of pleasure. Watching him suffer as he deserved, both physically and psychologically, and in her hands was nirvana, not an orgasm but something indescribably wonderful.

Just this one time it had been just as fun as sex.

_A/N: I apologize in advance for this long note! Like many writers for this pairing, I believe that while the Joker does enjoy sex he can ,and would rather, get the same pleasure from an elaborate heist or murder. In this fic I wanted to find just the one time that Harley could get the same sensation that he does through the same outlet, I see it as an even more heightened level of intimacy between the psychotic duo, especially because I feel that most of the satisfaction she gets from murder is the fact that it makes him happy when she does it. Just once I wanted that satisfaction to be only hers because I don't think she has it in her nature to become that happy over another kill, nor do I think she would kill that brutally (unless instructed) by choice, she would have to know the person really deserved it. My belief is that Harley's euphoria is basically the Joker, simple as that. Sorry for the graphic gore, I hope it wasn't too terribly offensive! Rate and reviews are great, I'd love to know what people think. Constructive criticism is welcome and greatly appreciated. kisses to my readers 3_


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